A Pristine Disappointment

Her “beauty[…] was the radiance of an opium-dream[…] Yet her features were not of that regular mould which we have been falsely taught to worship in the classical labors of the heathen.” ~ Edgar Allan Poe

Dear Master,

Although starting a letter with a quotation is unorthodox, I feel the words of your idol best describe the home I’ve secured for us. The house itself is a pristine disappointment. However, the lack of corruption mutilating our new walls will mean nothing after you glance upon the mad angel who lurks next door. I’ve included a sketch.

Your eternal servant,
Igor

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the wee notes…
– A house behind twisted trees (see below) made me think of my beloved Poe, and of his love for the gnarled and uncanny. I went digging for a piece out of Odessa Begay’s Edgar Allan Poe coloring book, which I colored in a rather imaginative way *cough*.
– Linked to Friday Fictioneers. Visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog, to join the fun. Then follow this LINK, to read what others have dragged from behind the fence.
– Linked to Prompt Nights ~ Fly (0ver) Friday.

inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s “Ligeia”
colored to mad life by moi

photo by J Hardy Carroll

Sometimes Peace and Shame Must Dance Together

“The white sculpture arrived when the birds stopped singing. It sealed the treaty between us and the Mythicals—they gave us magic, we repaid with Essence. Everybody said Essence was hippy crap. Then, Jack Evans died.”

“County records say the Evans family relocated, sir. Why think he’s dead?”

I looked at my old hands, and said, “I… told Jack ‘Real men touch The White’—we kids call it that. Jack touched The White… It turned red and swallowed him.”

“This happened years ago. Why speak now?”

“Because I turned fifteen today… and looked it, until my family repaid the Mythicals.”

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a wee note…
– Linked to Friday Fictioneers. Visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog, to join the writing yum. Then follow this LINK, to read what others have crafted out of the sculpture.

photo by Jennifer Pendergast

Hear the Wails

I focused on the black and yellow markings of a cricket, watched my pain merge its colors into a liquid blur. The Burmans made dinner—dandelion greens with garlic, by the smell and weediness of the screams.

They were good people, took me in and treated me humanely, after other foster families had used faith and fist to beat their demons out of me. But why can’t they hear the wails of the flowers?

I closed my mind to the hurt, but one flower broke through. “I see you,” she said. “I burn in the dark, peeking through your heart.”

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the wee notes…
– Linked to Friday Fictioneers. Visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog, to join the writing fun. Follow this LINK, to read what others have written out of the cricket.
– The markings of the cricket brought to mind a blackout poem I crafted some weeks back. The flower I drew on the blackout, plus the wee poem itself, reminded me of the young protagonist of “The Dark Place”, the last story in my Blooming Howls collection. I decided to write today’s tale from her point of view. It was nice—and devastating—to write her again.

photo by Shaktiki Sharma

I see you.
I am in the dark
peeking
through your heart.